


Hell Is Round the Corner

by CypressSunn



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: M/M, Roswell New Mexico Week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 10:22:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19972489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CypressSunn/pseuds/CypressSunn
Summary: “We’re kind of in the middle of a manhunt…” Alex protests just as Kyle licks his lips. The sight alone detours his grasp on logic and Alex has to look away. “We shouldn't be doing this.”





	Hell Is Round the Corner

**Author's Note:**

> Roswell New Mexico Week, Day Three: "Quick & Dirty."  
> ((It's 11:55 PM in my timezone and still the third day of Roswell Week! I MADE IT!))
> 
> Note to readers: Do not try this while being hunted by the authorities.

_ “Hell is round the corner where I shelter _  
_ Ism's and schisms, we're living helter skelter” _  
_ -Tricky _

“Do you trust me?” Kyle whispers, a shot in the dark between them crouched low to the asphalt. Alex is inches away from him huddled behind the same hollowed-out junker that's missing two wheels. They're pinned down. If they move, they're dead.

“No,” Alex replies, “of course not.”

“Wow, Manes, really?” Kyle mutters in disbelief.

It had all gone wrong just before midnight. They had been trying to intercept a shipment of military tech the Master Sergeant was orchestrating. It was an easy enough decryption. Alex pinpointed the handoff between the rogue sectors of the military. Verified the time, the location, the cover story. Even rooted out the forged state trooper badges they planned on using.

They were successful in sabotaging the bio-weapon cargo but their extraction plan- well, went sideways, to say the least.

“If we stay here, we're finished!” hisses Kyle. Alex can sense the panic growing in him. The tremor in his voice, the flinty way his pupils move. Alex wants to reach over and touch him. Remind Kyle that he is a surgeon, to imagine the world is his OR- even this seedy strip of downtown Roswell with no light and no backup. Calm and steady, stay in control.

If only reassurances came easier to Alex. Instead he dismisses him, “if we go out with whatever half-cocked idea you’ve got, we’re even worse off.”

Something cracks above them. A bullet whizzes by overhead, wildly embedding itself into a concrete wall.

“Shit!” Kyle closes his eyes, alarm rising, but Alex holds a finger to his lips. Finally, a stroke of luck.

Firing wild into the night within the city limits? Bad move. Sloppy. This isn’t a declared warzone. Alex can almost see their once narrow chances widening as there’s a rustling at windows a few stories up and lights flipping on. A nearby apartment building is coming alive with civilians and onlookers.

“What was it you had in mind?” Alex whispers.

“Oh, now you wanna hear it?” They shoot each other petulant looks that have no place in a life or death situation. “If we move fast,” Kyle explains, “we can make it to the alley. From there I know how to get us out.”

“No,” Alex insists. “They'll pin us down again. Alleys are always dead ends.”

“Not this one.” And Kyle leaps up and books it.

Dammit. If Kyle gets himself killed Alex is gonna be pissed.

* * *

While the flunkies of his father’s speciest cabal are trying to quell their unwanted civilian attention, Kyle makes it down the alley and onto a side street before Alex catches up to him. Yanking him by the scruff of his collar, Alex drags him into the kitschy adobe-brick alcove of the Moon Rock’n’Roll Cafe.

Not a second later, a half dozen scurried shadows march past, boots heavy to the pavement. He can see the outline of their drawn guns even as they fade down the block. Alex wants to roar that he was right, that alleys are always terrible ideas. But Kyle is forking over the cover charge to the doorman who has appeared out of nowhere and strides right into the swarming bar.

“You really should trust me more, Manes,” Kyle gloats. “I was the son of not one but two sheriffs. I know all the best hiding places.”

“And I was the son of a sociopath,” Alex counters. “I know all the worst enhanced interrogation techniques for when they catch us.”

Behind them is a trooper flashing his badge. Alex nods imperceptibly, pointing him out to Kyle who grimaces. Not enough cover here. Too many civilians. They need to keep moving.

“How sure are we that they aren't real cops?” Kyle asks again as if Alex had not shown him reams of proof for their counterfeit badge numbers.

“You tell me,” Alex deadpans, “every cop and trooper in the county is on your family’s Christmas card list, not mine.”

Following another exit down the long lines near the restrooms, they are out of the beery, crowded air and back on the street. A scuffle of drunks moving towards the next stop on their bar crawl offers cover for a block or so until Kyle ducks aside into yet another alley.

Alex is getting more than a little irate that Kyle keeps moving without signaling. If Alex takes his sights off him for a second he could wind up gunned down between any of the openings along these old buildings. To Alex they are winging it, going in hot and blind. But Kyle doesn't slow down. He seems certain which way he is headed.

The walkways get narrower as they're sidewinding down a series of one-ways with not a detour signage. The buildings here are lower, old pueblo style, stacked like ammo boxes and built too close together.

Behind them, they can still hear marching footfalls. The enemy is near.

“Just a little bit further,” Kyle promises. “We’re almost-” Alex grabs his hand. Kyle swings back, face surprised. He was about to waltz into an open intersection overlit with streetlights. He’d be a sitting duck.

“Why don't we just jump the fence?” Alex points out, eyeing the dark shadow ridden route.

Kyle glances downward, confused. “Because of your leg?”

“Oh, fuck you, Valenti,” Alex scoffs, taking to the vertical grating with the same ease he did in basic. He's up and over and Kyle matches him step for step, just slightly more winded. Serves him right, the abled-bodied asshole.

From there it's jumping more fences and ducking around corners. Both of them slide to poorly stuck landings hopping over the Terra Firma Taco joint’s dumpster that blocks the thoroughfare; both crashing on their asses on the alley. No bullets rush in and no one screams they are under arrest.

Kyle turns to Alex, who is wiping down his pants. His grin is broad and bright and Alex feels it thrum through him. The thrill of adrenalin and half breathed chuckling, glances back at each other over their shoulders. Unmistakably, Alex realizes he's having fun leaving Kyle in the dust. Having fun watching Kyle try and do the same.

“You gotta keep up, Valenti.”

Kyle’s eyes shine and he follows after.

* * *

They wind up not in an alley, but between two buildings. Heaps of recycling and cardboard cases block any vantage from the street. They settle in between the debris, breathing hard and counting their luck. Kyle is standing in soggy newspaper and Alex is wedged in front of him. He wants to be at the forefront if trouble finds them. He prays they don’t come up the back, where there is nothing to protect the man next to him.

Soon come the footsteps that are too close for them to dare shuffling apart. They are half glued to each other, pressing to the wall. The footsoldiers glide by yet again. Kyle’s victorious grin is infectious. Neither of them can stifle their laughter.

“Quiet Manes, you'll give us away,” Kyle whispers accusingly.

“You're even louder than me,” Alex says back.

Kyle bends forward into the crook of Alex’s coat collar, muffles his breathing there. Alex wraps an arm around his torso to steady him when he thinks he hears encroaching voices.

No one finds them.

Alex is angled away, watching for trouble when Kyle draws up too soon, without warning and oh.

They are so close they can taste each other's sweat.

Alex pulls back as far as their crowded surroundings will allow. But he can’t take his eyes off that mouth, the smirk on it when Kyle says, “Don't get bashful on me now, Manes.”

“You wish, Valenti.”

“Just saying, though,” Kyle counters, “dying together would have been very intimate.”

“Whereas this is entirely-” Alex searches for the right wrong word, their proximity making it hard to think, “impersonal.”

“Personal? Of course not. And hey, by the way? Is that your gun in your belt or-”

Alex rolls his eyes. “It's my gun.”

Kyle shakes his head exasperated, chuckles throatily and in a moment of driven insanity, Alex moves Kyle's hand from his belt loop. Closer to center mass, but lower to his-

“That's not your gun,” Kyle points out, dumbfounded. But his eyes are glassy, his voice thick with heat. He’s chewing his lip and Alex can think of a few places he wants to sink his teeth.

“I told you, you gotta keep up Valenti-” and Kyle claims the rest of his challenge with his mouth.

It's too tight a fit, molding their bodies together. There's no room to angle their moves, hike up limbs or find just the right friction. It's frustrating, excruciating work just to get his hands under Kyle’s shirt.

But the rewarding sound of his hoarse gasping. That's worth it.

Alex keeps kissing him, pulling Kyle deeper and deeper. Drinking Kyle in, urging him on. They’re all keyed up and grinding. Feeding the hungry, half-starved thing between them they had politely- and impolitely- ignored until now. The glances, the small touches, the barbs and dodges- all of it boiled over as they clutched at each other, sealing their lips with a burning, burning need for more.

Alongside them a crash comes, a bottle rolls and something skitters away. Alex has Kyle's hands by the wrists a too-tight squeeze.

“We lost em,” Kyle assures, pulling needily on Alex’s shirt. “Relax.”

“We don't know that.” Alex looks at a loss, suddenly coming to his senses about where he was, who he was with, and who was after them.

“Second thoughts already?” Kyle nipped at his neck.

Alex shudders, wanting to take ahold of Kyle’s face and guide that unruly mouth to exactly where he wants it.

“We’re kind of in the middle of a manhunt…” Alex protests just as Kyle licks his lips. The sight alone detours his grasp on logic and Alex has to look away. “We shouldn't be doing this.”

“You started it,” Kyle reminds him. And, shit, he isn’t wrong.

Alex closes his eyes and lets Kyle’s heedless touch wash over him, sinking deep into his skin. Every trace of his hands feels like it will leave a mark. Not like a bruise, but a battery of tattoos. Imprints of lust lingering long after he’s stopped.

“You make me do stupid things,” Alex admits, eyes opening.

Kyle looks at Alex like he is a new man; like Kyle has everything he could ever want. Alex has learned that any man’s libido looks something like that in a moment like this. But this moment between them spreads on and on, open and inviting. Kyle looks like he is about to say something, something they can’t take back and Alex knows he’ll mean it when he says it in return.

In his pocket, Alex's phone shakes. The sirens pick up and quickly follow in the distance.

“Police scanner alerts,” Alex mutters, wipes sweat from his face.

“They're back?”

“No. They wouldn’t use an official frequency. Real cops this time. The fake ones will hightail it out.”

“So,” Kyle trails along Alex’s jawline, “at worst were getting arrested for public indecency and not getting strung up by our thumbs?

Alex sighs just as he shivers again, a bone-deep yearning tremble.

“We really, really need to expand your understanding of torture techniques,” Alex argues in spite himself, in spite of the compromising position they are in. “All so outdated-”

“More pressing matters, Alex,” Kyle chides, tongue laving against a pressure point Alex didn't know he had.

“We can't move from- we can't,” Alex says. His mind is spinning, trying to concoct ways to deny himself what he desperately wants. Reason. Logic. They had never failed to stop him before.

Meanwhile, Kyle, in a moment of euphoric genius, moves the only way he can in such a cramped space. He drops to his knees.

“Fuck, Valenti…”

Unbelting Alex, he drags down his pants and boxers until his ass is pressed to the ribbed brick wall behind him.

“I’m sorry, what was that? What did you say my name was?”

He’s gone completely still in his ministrations. He won’t move, won’t budge until Alex gives in.

“Kyle. Your name is Kyle-”

The doctor's grip is solid and his stroke unforgiving, handling the hot heavy heat of Alex in his expert hands. Alex can’t help but throw his head back. Yearn and lean into it, pulsing and tensing. Kyle’s cheeks are flushed red. Their breath in the air is husky and hurried. Alex isn’t sure how his hands end up in Kyle’s hair but he’s pulling and Kyle is letting him.

There’s one last moment of hesitation. Because flirting is one thing- the tongue in cheek overtures, the quick and dirty makeout- but Kyle putting Alex's dick in his mouth is another thing entirely.

“You even know what you're doing?” Alex cautions, heart palpitating.

Kyle makes a smug, self-satisfied noise. He has one hand fisted around the base of Alex and the other circling and sliding in tantric motions.

"Do you trust me?” he echoes back.

Alex groans. Shakes his head side to side even as he widens his stance, rolls his hips, eyes transfixed on Kyle's mouth and breathes, "yes… yes… yes…"

Kyle smirks and gets to work.

_**fin.** _

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Roswell Week!  
> Lyrics courtesy of 1995 and the king of trip-hop, Tricky.  
> Written also for my One Hundred and One Shots prompt #18. Trust.


End file.
